Main Street Magazine Spring '23

coffee shop on main street:
an abundance of damp espresso
grounds and crumbled receipts,
physical expressions of the afternoon rush
surround a plastic-lined coffee cup.
its lid stained with a
crescent of pink lipstick,
the fine lines of the painted
lips distorted into a frown,
their impressions enshrined into
a plaque of single use plastic.
a forgotten memorial to
an awkward first date,
(girls dont wear lipstick to a coffee
shop unless it's a date.)
the pink color complimented
the flush of her cheeks
when he made her blush.
feeling the hot blood rush to her face
when he stepped aside from the register
without paying for her drink.
she fumbled in her jean pockets
in search of a few dollars,
placing the change in
the tip jar for the barista
while avoiding her speculative gaze.
she sipped on coffee flavored
with sugar-free syrup
during long pauses
in faltering conversation.
an earnest attempt to get rid of
the funny taste in her mouth
as he slid his large hand up her thigh.
funeral parlor in my hometown:
the
beach:
my childhood bedroom:
michael
row the boat ashore
hallelujah
in the red brick school
on the riverbend,
children gather near a walnut piano.
giggling in between
off-pitched notes
as their classmate paddles
the imaginary oar in hands
around the streams of laughter.
now michael lies forever in a walnut casket
as i recall childhood memories of a boy
whom i no longer spoke to,
the pain of losing a friend twice over.
grasping onto sentiments worn by
the heedless passage of time,
like the prayer cards in the trash bin,
creased under the pressure of shaking
hands.
we see him row beyond
the curve of the riverbend.
out of sight from weeping eyes
as his parents close
the heavy lid on his eternal rest.
together again in a somber reunion,
singing the hymn
of our childhoods.
michael
row the boat ashore
hallelujah
a swarm of gulls
fortune seekers in flight
rummage in search of
forgotten riches
across a sprawling field
littered with spring flowers and
garbage from family barbecues.
a sign of warmer days to come.
the daffodils bend their heads
towards the unbounded sea
their perfect reflection distorted
by ripples of current.
a certain type of sadness
lingers in the salty air
with the changing of the seasons.
the faint afternoon moon
guides the ceaseless
motion of the undertow,
the flux softening the blunt edges
of a shattered glass bottle,
fool’s gold for the children
gathering sea glass on the beach.
their little fingers sift through
bits of plastic and seashells.
a school of fish swims past the cove,
their iridescent bodies float
with the rise and fall of the waves.
shimmers of refracting sunlight
expose the idyllic facade,
garbage mistaken for
creatures of the sea.
melted candle wax scented
with eucalyptus leaves,
photos of celebrity crushes torn from
stolen nail salon magazines,
stuffed into white trash bags.
broken eggshells lie at my feet,
an empty nest.
we are a family born from
the floods of the valley.
i watched you gather
sticks gemstones and sweetgrass
in the wake of the storm,
water still beaded on your feathers.
we began weaving a home,
the chimes of bells and
false memories worked into
the plaiting of fallen branches.
my childhood now
strewn in boxes
on the hardwood floor.
my mother’s song rises
with the north country wind
(seedlings blossom into sunflowers)
as its gusts flow
through my virgin wings.
horizons fade into the mist of
the sublime expanse
as i begin to follow
the scar of the river to the coast.
leaving behind everything
i have ever loved.